


Distraction

by SarcasmFish (Alcyonidae)



Series: Holy Andraste's Chantry Prep School [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boarding School, F/M, Modern Thedas, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:39:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9186641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyonidae/pseuds/SarcasmFish
Summary: During a rather boring session of history class, the Warden is distracted by one of her classmates.  It's Alistair, of course.





	

The clock hands had not moved.  She had just looked at least five minutes ago, but she swore the hands had not budged even a fraction.  Was it broken?  The batteries must have run out while she had been looking away.  That would explain the lack of movement.

She turned her attention back to the packet of worksheets in front of her while one hand flipped through the pages of her history book without actually seeing what was on them.

The Nevarran Accord.  Mages were bad.  Put them in Towers.  Put Templars in to watch them.  Put Seekers in to watch the Templars watch the Mages.  End of story.  Why were there 34 pages devoted to this topic?  Why were there at least 17 new vocabulary words to definite over it?  And who cared about her written opinion on the matter hundreds of years later?  Knight-Captain Hollens, apparently.

There was a humming sound off to her right.  She cut her eyes to the side, landing on Alistair in the row beside her own.  His eyes were distant and focused far off through one of the upper windows, as if he were watching the clouds go by.  He was humming a faint little tune.

She stared at him a moment and then returned to her work.  Kordillus Drakon the first was born to Septimus Drakon, the youngest son of Lord Vanderin Drakon of Tevinter in the year… What tune was that?  It seemed so vague, but familiar.  And could no one else hear him?  Maker!  She couldn’t concentrate with that humming!

“Psst…” she tried to gain his attention, tried to wave her hand around a bit to catch his gaze, but he was leagues away.  “Alistair…  Ali-”

“Miss Surana!”  The loud boom came from the front of the room where their instructor sat glaring.

She stood, slow, head sinking into her shoulders, color rising to her cheeks as all eyes in the room swiveled back to focus on her.  “Yes, Knight-Captain?”

“Is your arm somehow broken?”  His lips were turned up into a sneer.

“No, ser.”  Her answer was soft, no doubt if the room had not been so silent, as to glean this exciting exchange, he would have forced her to speak louder.

“Then if you need assistance with something you can raise your hand like all of the other students have learned to do.”  The sneer turned smug.  She could almost hear him congratulating himself on leading her right into that verbal trap; as if she had any other path.

“Yes, Knight-Captain.  I apologize for disrupting the class.”

She sat back down and sunk as far as she could into the seat, keeping her head bowed low from lingering stares.  With a shaking hand she picked up her pencil again and returned to copying the definitions from the paragraphs in the book.

The clock hand had moved.  It had only moved forward one or two tiny steps, but it had moved.  The definitions were all filled in, her scratchy handwriting looping and falling into the margins, but they were done.  She hefted a little sigh and flipped the page over to begin on the short answer questions.

A scratching sound was coming from her right.  She shifted her gaze to Alistair again in slow measures, feeling as if the Knight-Captain could merely sense her step out of line, like some sort of predator discerning the weakest member of the herd. 

Alistair was drawing something with fierce determination on the bottom of his worksheet, one hand weighing down the paper as if it might fly away before his masterpiece could be unleashed upon the world.

She stared at him, the scratching of the pencil seeming to be scratching upon the outside of her skull.  Her lips pursed themselves into a scowl.  Maybe if she stared at him hard enough he would realize and look her direction.  Then she could convey to him to be quieter so she could concentrate. 

She imaged her eyes were daggers, boring into that head of hair she knew he spent at least an hour on every morning.  He continued drawing, biting the corner of his lip, pausing now and then to tilt his head and asses his work.

What was he even drawing?  Was that a chicken?  A gryphon?  She sat up a little straighter to try and see over his arm, craning her head and squinting her eyes.

A loud THWACK resounded off her skin, the flat side of a ruler leaving a large red welt over the back of her hand.  She yanked it back, cradling it against her chest.

“Miss Surana.  Keep your eyes on your own paper!”  The Knight-Captain stood over her shoulder, just behind and out of view.  He must have been creeping around through the rows while she had been distracted.  The ruler poised for another strike.

She hunkered down in her chair again, keeping her head down as the class turned to gawk.  “Yes, ser.  I apologize again, ser.”  It was a bit of a mumble, any louder and her voice might crack and broadcast to the entire room her humiliation.

“This is your last warning.”  There was a growl in his voice and she hunched her shoulders to help disguise the sting of tears welling in her eyes.  He continued his prowl through the rows of desks and students, leaving her huddled over her worksheet.

She dared not look at the clock, but was sure that it had not moved.  She was trapped here forever.  This was some justice the Maker had cast against her for… well, for something.  This was her new home.  Eternal history class with Knight-Captain Jerkface.  She just could not wait to learn about all the ways mages had ruined the world throughout Thedas’ history.  Just think of the pages and pages she could write on the irresponsible follies of her kin!

She unconsciously rubbed at the welt on the back of her hand.  It still stung.

A crunching sound drew her attention to her right.  Her eyes drifted towards Alistair again, cautious, but curious.  Maker, was he eating?!  She watched, eyes large and full of disbelief as he took generous bites from one of those granola bars that notoriously crumbled into billions of pieces before it even reached your lips.  As she sat in stunned horror, large hunks broke off and sprinkled over his textbook and assignment.

Her eyes grew wider as she watched, then cut to the instructor sitting with an oblivious glaze at the front of the classroom.  She looked from Alistair and back to the Knight-Captain several times, waiting, just waiting for him to notice the grievous ruler breaker sitting right in their midst.  But their instructor went on about his day, straightening his papers, checking his computer, glaring at everyone but the one person who actually deserved it.

She waited and watched.  Alistair was halfway through the crunchy mess and now added the crinkling of wrapper to his list of insults against her concentration.

The Knight-Captain sat down at his desk, hands hovering over his keyboard.  She scowled at Alistair again and, with a quick snap of her wrist, sent her pencil flying through the space between her row and the next.  It hit the edge of Alistair’s desk with a loud clack, slid across the open space above his book, and rolled off the other edge to the floor.

“Miss Surana!”  She didn’t even bother to look up this time, the venom in his voice spoke volumes.  “I’ll be seeing you in detention this evening.  Come prepared.”

There was nothing she could say, no defense for her actions he would accept.  A long pause filled the room, the only sound that of thirty pairs of eyes peering at her, before he spoke again.  “Class dismissed.”

She shoved the assignment into her book, snapped it closed, and slid it into her bag.  The clasp on the bag had long since given up its useful function.  Her hands attempted to jam the two pieces together for a moment, teeth grinding in frustration, but ultimately made no progress in forcing it to stay closed.  She let it hang open and threw the strap over her head and across her body. 

Alistair was standing beside her, crumbs clinging to the stubble on his chin.  His hand was out, open to her.  In the palm of his hand sat the pencil that had earned her quality time with her favorite instructor.

His head tilted to the side, stark confusion written over his earnest face.

“Isn’t this your pencil?”


End file.
